


Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid

by alexabarton



Series: Deduce My Ruined Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Bottom Sherlock, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Light Bondage, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Slut Sherlock, Teenlock, Top John, Topping from the Bottom, Unilock, Virgin John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2404997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't just let John Watson walk off into the night. They arrange to meet secretly and spend a wild night roaming the streets of London. But Sherlock is keeping secrets from John because some things are better left unsaid.</p><p>"Take him home dear, for goodness sake", the woman said kindly. "It's freezing cold out. You should be somewhere nice and warm".</p><p>"You heard the lady John", said Sherlock, darkly, "take me home and fuck me".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> This follows immediately on from the events of 'Are We Growing Up, Or Just Going Down?" from Sherlock's POV.
> 
> The sweet little story I had in my head at the beginning has somehow turned into an epic smut-fest! I'm not sorry.

Sherlock sat in silence, body swaying gently with the movement of the van as it navigated the darkened streets. He was thinking – locked inside his own head, oblivious to the idle chatter of the other band members around him. Anderson’s nasal drone, Greg’s warm, throaty chuckle, and Dimmock’s high-pitched squawk, (when are your balls going to drop mate?) blended together until they were nothing more than mildly irritating white noise.

Sherlock was thinking about John, the boy from the gig whose eyes had burned through a dense crowd of sweaty bodies and had made him forget what chord he was supposed to be playing.That never happened to him, it was always so instinctive, and besides, Greg had written it so how hard could it possibly be? Sherlock had been the first to look away.

As soon as the song had ended, he’d dived off stage, heading for the fire exit, desperate for a cigarette (why was he so nervous?). He had been genuinely surprised when that blonde head and compact body (oh my god, that body!) had stumbled through the doorway shortly after, blushing and stammering like a schoolgirl. Sherlock was entranced.

The rest of that precious time had passed in a blur, like life was in fast forward when Sherlock usually struggled through hour after tedious hour, a never ending test of endurance which he frequently failed. He wanted to remember every detail, store it away in its own special place in his head so he could take it out and look at it whenever he needed to.

Need.

That was new.

Sherlock had never associated another living sole with the word ‘need’, not even Mycroft or Mummy. But Sherlock ‘needed’ to remember all of John. The way he looked with his hair all ruffled and lips swollen from kissing, the way his abdomen clenched under Sherlock’s fingertips when they dipped just a little too low, the way his pulse hammered under Sherlock’s tongue when he pressed it against the jugular vein, and the way he had tasted.

(John had tasted like salt and honey and freshly cut grass, and it was intoxicating!)

Oh, and the delicious little noises he had made, just for him. Sherlock wanted to hear those noises again. He needed to know that they were real, that John was real, because sitting here now, in this stinking van, John felt as insubstantial as a shadow, a ghost of a memory.

He pulled out his phone a dashed off a text. It was a bit low, pretending to be his sister, but he had to be sure that John would at least open the message. What if he already regretted what had happened? This way he could pass it off as a joke if his fears were realised. John was obviously new to all this and Sherlock knew he could be pretty full on when he wanted something, or someone…and he wasn’t accustomed to being turned down in that department. It wasn’t vanity, because Sherlock had always held the opinion that his face was ‘interesting’ shall we say, and his body too long with far too many angles and sharp edges, but he had never been short of attention, at least for the length of time it took to get off.

The horrible truth was that Sherlock was a massive slut, huge, enormous. Greg had been entirely accurate when he had called him a dirty little fuck. At seventeen he was already well into double figures and until now had shown no signs of slowing down any time soon. But it was purely a physical release for him. It slowed down his juggernaut of a brain, sensation grounding him in reality. It helped him sleep, and he always felt ravenously hungry afterwards. Most of the time Sherlock didn’t even care if they knew his name or not.

He avoided the other boys at school unless they were at least year 12 or above, even though he’d been propositioned more than once (eleven times actually, if you counted the part- time teaching assistant from last year), because it was less messy. It would never do to have a bunch of sweaty, half-witted adolescent boys mooning after him for the rest of the year. Other than that it was strictly pubs and clubs, and some of Mycroft’s friends, which was always more fun!

The only person who had managed to break through Sherlock’s emotional barriers was Victor. He was twenty-one, with wavy blond hair and green eyes, and a fellow member of some ridiculous supper club with Mycroft. Victor had talked to Sherlock, asked questions and actually listened to his answers, and Sherlock found to his surprise that he actually wanted to hear what Victor had to say. He made Sherlock feel human. Then of course, he had tied Sherlock’s wrists to the bed frame with blue nylon cord and plowed him into the mattress on his back.

He came, screaming.

It was his sixteenth birthday.

It was glorious!

Mycroft saw the rope marks on his wrists and he was furious. Sherlock couldn’t remember what he had said, he could just recall being transfixed by the veins popping and pulsing at his temples and his hands clenching and unclenching into fists at his sides. It was the only time Sherlock had ever feared that Mycroft might punch him.

Victor never came back to the house after that. Sherlock heard he had ‘secured’ an internship with an advertising firm in New York. He didn’t answer any of Sherlock’s calls or open any of his texts.

Mycroft begged him not to let Mummy see the marks, so Sherlock had worn nothing but t-shirts for the next two weeks. It was January. He caught bronchitis and was in bed for a week.

Mummy never noticed.

Sherlock wondered vaguely how John would look tied to his bed, spread out beneath him as he straddled his hips – would he beg Sherlock to touch him? To fuck him? Would he scream like Sherlock had?

His phone vibrated against his hip, and his heart gave a funny little double beat which made his breath hitch. John!

Sherlock counted exactly thirty seconds after the van had dropped him off outside his door and Greg had watched him take out his key and let himself into the house. He padded down the hall and through the kitchen of the immaculate town house. Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out a hair pin, stolen from Mummy’s dresser an age ago and jimmied at the old tarnished lock on the pantry door. The hinges creaked slightly as he eased the door open and slipped inside, crossing quickly to a long narrow window on the far wall. The window was always ajar, considered much too small for any burglar to steal through, but not too narrow for Sherlock. He slipped through easily and half-ran across the lawn, pausing to unclip a dark grey hoodie from the washing line on the way. He pulled it on. It was slightly damp from the cool night air. He was going to be late. Being late was Sherlock’s usual habit, but tonight was important, he didn’t want John to leave before he had a chance to see him again, to see whether this attraction was real or imaginary. He decided a call would be better.

“Sherlock?”

His stomach did a weird swooshing thing.

“Hey yeah, look ten minutes was a bit ambitious, I only just got rid of Greg. I’m about 5 minutes away. Wait a bit longer,…. please?”

Oh fuck, what had happened to relaxed and confident Sherlock who had stripped down John’s defences and left him quivering against a wall?

Sherlock picked nervously at the crusted evidence on the front of his t-shirt.

“That’s fine, 5 minutes I mean, if I’m not there I’ll just be at the flat getting changed okay?”

Sherlock examined his fingernails and felt filthy.

But John was there when he turned the final corner and slowed to a jog. When he ended the call he had bolted, taking every short cut he knew if only it would shave a few seconds from that 5 minutes, and he had a horrible stitch in his side from running so fast. He was close enough to see John’s face now, illuminated by the campus security lights. He was grinning like he was genuinely happy to see him, yet all Sherlock wanted to do at that moment was to pin him down and snog him until he couldn’t breathe. He approached hesitantly, unsure what he was supposed or allowed to do. Sherlock never really had second encounters, he was as clueless as John now. He closed the remaining gap between them and brushed the back of his hand gently across John’s jaw.

“Just checking”, he murmured, by way of explanation.

“Checking what?” said John,

“That you’re real”, he replied, bending his head down to catch John’s lips in his. John sighed into his mouth and curled an arm around his waist, his other hand resting lightly in the soft downy hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. It tickled slightly and made him tingle and shiver. John thought he was cold and pulled him in tighter.

Sherlock could feel the familiar heat building in his groin and pulled away reluctantly. They were too exposed here, in full view of anyone passing or looking out of a window, this wasn’t like earlier where the risk had been minimal and he certainly didn’t want them both to be arrested for public indecency. He hoped John would understand.

“Yeah, I guess it is best not to put on a show for the neighbours”, laughed John, stepping back.

Sherlock was amazed yet again.

“Or my brother for that matter”, added Sherlock, “Though, I’m fairly sure he thinks I’m safely tucked up in bed like a good little boy”.

He grabbed John’s hand and began pulling him back in the direction of the town. Sherlock needed a little time to clear his head and to put John at his ease.

John had absolutely no idea yet, but Sherlock had every intention of ending the night in John’s bed, with a very naked John, on top of him, or underneath him, or spoons, he didn’t really care so long as there were no clothes whatsoever involved and someone’s cock ended up in someone else’s arse.

Maybe it would be better to let John top for his first time, Sherlock mused. At least that way he could feel in control. A bit. Sherlock was more than capable of topping from the bottom if need be, but John didn’t need to know that.

“It must be a real pain in the arse being under constant surveillance”, said John

Sherlock just registered the word ‘arse’ and his eyes went wide. He tried valiantly to pick up the threads of their previous conversation,

“You have no idea, although, there are ways to get around it from time to time”.

It was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue to tell him about Mycroft’s last P.A. who was put on ‘Sherlock Watch’ when Mycroft was too busy. He had had a Prince Albert piercing and a skull tattoo on his arse and Sherlock had fucked him over Mycroft’s mahogany desk in his study while Mycroft was entertaining several junior Cabinet ministers in the drawing room. He had covered the come stains left on the varnish with blotting paper and an antique silver ink stand.

Oh god, thought Sherlock, John had absolutely no idea how fucked he was tonight, both literally and metaphorically.

Sherlock bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.

“So, what is your full name anyway? You never did mention it”, John continued.

He was on safer ground now. “Sherlock Holmes, or William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but only on birthdays and Christmas. Or if I’ve done something particularly scandalous”, he added.

“Like what?”, asked John, innocently

. Oh fuck. Sherlock thought of Victor and the P.A. and shrugged his shoulders.

“Dunno”, he lied brazenly.

“ Well, mine is John Hamish Watson – no laughing “, he warned.

“I wasn’t going to”, sniggered Sherlock. “Its very… traditional, it suits you”

“Just John is fine, and if you ever drop the ‘H’ bomb in public, I may have to kill you with my bare hands”.

This was much better. Sherlock had never found it so easy to just chat about ordinary rubbish to anyone in his life. He still hated himself just a little for all the depraved things he was thinking about doing to him in the very near future. Tonight, hopefully.

“So, what’s the story with the band? Is that a permanent thing, or…hang on, are you still at school?”

“Yes to the second question and God no to the first – I’m doing a favour for Greg, at Mycroft’s request of course” (another idea to keep him from looking for trouble of another variety)

“Are him and Greg…….?”, John let the question hang in the air between them.

“Fucking? – Yes, although I’d rather not have that mental image in my head right now John. Having to listen to them all night is bad enough thank you”.

“Yeah but Greg seems cool, don’t you think?”

“He’s not a complete imbecile”, Sherlock conceded, “but he did arrest me once for trespassing at a crime scene”.

Sherlock decided in that instant to give John a ‘revised’ account of that memorable evening. In another round of post- Victor rebellion, Sherlock had utilised the ‘pantry exit strategy’ and snuck into town. Thinking about what he could do to piss Mycroft off the most, he had bought a single wrap of cocaine from the older brother of a classmate outside a place called The Kitty Club, cutting it into neat lines with his library card on the lid of a wheelie bin in a back alley. The drug had stung the back of his throat and made him cough. What followed were three incredible hours of mental clarity, during which he encountered a scene of utter carnage and chaos. He had observed a short bearded man, clothes stained a dark rusty red with blood being manhandled roughly into the back of a waiting police van. Yellow police tape cordoned off a large area of the residential street, at the centre of which was a large white saloon car. The boot had been popped open, more blood coating the inside. A woman sat on the steps of an ambulance off to the left, wrapped in a large orange blanket, being comforted by a young female police officer with dark curly hair pulled back severely from her face. Sherlock had ducked under the tape, striding confidently towards the vehicle. He had circled it twice, then glanced at the woman in the ambulance, grinning in realisation. A harassed looking police officer had approached at that point, and taking him by the arm had roughly pulled him back beyond the tape.

“He didn’t do it you know, she did”, Sherlock had nodded towards the woman in the ambulance.

“ Blood splatter all wrong, weight distribution, hair missing, scalp laceration….”. The deductions had continued to spew forth unbidden, each part of the puzzle crystal clear in Sherlock’s mind. The young constable (PC Greg Lestrade) had stared at him open mouthed, taking in every word. Then his eyes had narrowed and his face had pressed closer to Sherlock’s, brow furrowed.

“You are fucking high as a kite you, little fucking shit, what the fuck are you on?”

For the first time in his life Sherlock had simply gone for the truth.

“Coke, two lines about three hours ago. You can’t arrest me for possession, I’ve got nothing on me”

. “No, it’s all fucking in you now you stupid little shit. What I am going to do is arrest you for trespass and take you down to the station so you can come down, where you can’t get yourself into any more fucking trouble. Right, next of kin, who do we need to call?”

And that, thought Sherlock, was the beginning of a beautiful relationship, the police officerand the gentleman. Really, Mycroft had a lot to thank him for.

“Shit, what did they do to you?”, asked John, bringing him back to the present.

“Well Mycroft got them to reduce it to a Caution, but he said they should still keep me in a holding cell for the night – to teach me a valuable lesson apparently”, he rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Oh god that must’ve been awful”, said John.

“Not really, just fucking boring as fuck, for want of a better phrase. I ran through some equations, then I composed some music in my head – Oh, and then I had a wank. I had morning wood for god’s sake, what else was I supposed to do!

” John was bent over at the waist (don’t even think about it Sherlock), hand on the wall to steady himself, laughing so hard his entire body was heaving. His eyes were all crinkled at the corners and tears were slowly running down the sides of his face. Sherlock had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to reach out a fingertip and run it slowly through the salty liquid. He did. First the right cheek, then the left. He lifted his finger to his parted lips and tasted John. He sucked slowly, rolling his tongue around the soaking wet digit.

John just stared at him, pupils blown wide.

“What the hell have you done to me Sherlock?”, he groaned, before he launched himself at the taller boy

. It was a merciless attack. John’s tongue was in his mouth before he even had time to think about what was happening, probing and insistent, swirling around Sherlock’s own. John’s hands were cupped around both sides of Sherlock’s jaw, holding him in place, tilting his head to just the right angle. His breath tasted of mint mingled with faint traces of lager. Sherlock’s barely suppressed libido, which had been simmering beneath the surface from the moment he had touched John’s face outside his flat sprang back to life with a vengeance. He wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pulled him in tight, bodies pressed flush together from chest to knees. His trapped erection throbbed inside his jeans and he let out a soft groan into John’s mouth as John shifted position slightly, the barest hint of friction creating waves of delicious arousal rolling down from Sherlock’s abdomen to the tip of his cock. John was now basically fucking Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, and Sherlock wished in that moment that he was down on his knees again, in the courtyard of the student union building, with John’s cock down his throat. Only this time, John would hold Sherlock’s head still, just like he was doing now and fuck Sherlock’s face, and he would just let him, just use him and fill him up, and….oh god! His train of thought was momentarily derailed as John broke the kiss. He heard himself whine embarrassingly in protest.

“I can’t believe you’re real, do you know that? You can’t be real, this can’t possibly be real”.

John’s hands skimmed down his body, thumbs catching lightly over his nipples which stoodout in hard little pebbles under the thin material of his t-shirt. He shivered and arched his back slightly. John slid a hand underneath the soft cotton, cold fingers flickering over one erect bud and sending a sharp spasm of want through Sherlock’s body. John smiled into his chest.

“You are evil, John Watson”, he panted.

“Just a little payback for earlier” John smirked, and rolled the nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

“ Then I feel duty bound to warn you, that you are playing a very dangerous game”, huffed Sherlock

. “Oh yeah?”, John challenged, his other hand fumbling at the belt of Sherlock’s jeans.

“There will be consequences”, he gasped helplessly.

“Don’t care”, breathed John as he unzipped Sherlock’s jeans and pushed them down his thighs.

Underneath, Sherlock’s pants were tented and damp with precome. He knew John had never done this before and he could sense the nervous apprehension as John slowly eased the waistband down to just below his balls. Sherlock glanced nervously around. They were standing just beyond a walkway between two rows of houses, concealed by a block of ten garages, two rows of five, facing each other. The air was silent and still, the only sound, their own ragged breathing. John had one knee on the damp ground, hunkered down, one hand on the side wall of the garage block the other steadying the base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock heard a sharp intake of breath and then his aching erection was enveloped in warm wet heat. Tiny white pinpricks of light shimmered around the edges of his vision as he struggled to stay in control. For an amateur, John was making all the right moves and Sherlock wondered if he was sucking his cock the way he liked someone else to do it to him. Maybe he should be taking notes.

He couldn’t resist running his fingers through John’s ash blond hair, fisting a handful with a strangled moan as John hollowed out his cheeks and sucked him down further, tongue massaging rhythmically just below the head. Sherlock knew he was going to come when he could no longer keep his hips still. They canted up, once, twice, three times, the pressure building within him. He gasped John’s name raggedly, trying to warn him about his impending climax, but John simply put both hands on Sherlock’s hips, holding him in place. His stomach clenched and he came, shooting hot pulses of semen into John’s mouth. Sherlock sagged against the wall, bone weary, utterly wrecked. John looked equally debauched, lips wet and glistening with saliva and come. Sherlock couldn’t help but be amazed. That had been one impressive fucking blow-job. He drew John to his feet and pulled him in for a sticky kiss.

“ Do you happen to have a public sex kink that I should know about John Watson?”

“Fuck off, you loved every second of that”, a seconds pause.. “didn’t you?”.

Sherlock could hear the note of uncertainty in John’s voice.

“Are you joking?, that was fucking fantastic!. Remind me again, you definitely claim that until tonight you have never had your hands, or your mouth for that matter, on another guy’s prick?”.

John nodded in assent.

“You are a marvel, John Watson, a walking wank fantasy”.

Sherlock bent his head to John’s ear and in his lowest sexiest voice he said, “Those consequences that I mentioned earlier? Take me back to your flat and I’ll show you what they are and I’ll take care of this for you too”.

John sucked in his breath sharply as Sherlock slowly pressed the heel of his palm between John’s legs, feeling the hardness there. A polite cough broke through the night air. Sherlock’s head whipped around to see a figure approaching, still about 20 metres away, walking in their direction. It was a woman, late forties, early fifties, Sherlock guessed, carrying two plastic bags of shopping from a 24 hour Tesco store. She smiled indulgently at the pair as she approached. John kept his face turned into Sherlock’s chest, embarrassed at being caught-out in public.

“Take him home dear, for goodness sake”, the woman said kindly, “ Its freezing cold out. You should be somewhere nice and warm”.

She carried on walking and turned the corner, heading towards the main street. Sherlock felt John let out the breath that he had been holding. They both laughed nervously.

“You heard the lady John” said Sherlock darkly, “take me home and fuck me”.

“Is that what you want”, John stammered breathlessly.

(“God Yes!” thought Sherlock. I want to be on my hands and knees with John balls deep in my arse fucking me hard and fast. I want bruises on my hips and scratches down my back. I want him to pound into me so hard I come without a hand on my cock……or maybe he’ll tell me I’m not allowed to come until he says so, and I’ll have to beg him….please John please let me come!.... I want to….I _need_ to…….”)

“Sherlock?” John waved his hand back and forth in front of Sherlock’s face. “You drifted for a second there….what were you thinking?”

But luckily, Sherlock didn’t have to tell John what he was thinking as a piercing shriek rent the air. They sprang away from each other and moved automatically in the direction of the voice, rubber soles pounding along the pavement, skidding around the corner on a wave of momentum. It had definitely been the voice of a woman and taking into account both distance walked and time, it was most likely to be the woman who had passed them only seconds earlier. Sherlock recalled kind eyes, brown wispy hair and a slight, delicate frame, and felt nauseous. Both her hands had been full with shopping bags, no way to defend herself in time from a surprise attack, and no body weight to fight back. Where was she? Where was she for fucks sake?

She couldn’t be far, the noise had been surprisingly loud, and this was a residential area. Where were the curtain twitching granny’s when you needed them? , thought Sherlock.

“Over there, look!” John’s keen eyes had picked out two figures at the far end of the alley which led on to the high street. They could see cars and people passing by oblivious to the scene just metres away. It was after 2am, but London still buzzed with activity, as it did every night of the week. John shot past him moving fast.

“Hey, You!”

A middle-aged rat-faced man sneered back at them, lip curling contemptuously.

“Fuck off kid, this is none of your business. Me and Martha were just having a nice little chat weren’t we Martha?”, he addressed the trembling woman beside him. Martha looked terrified, wringing her hands and making small whimpering noises. Sherlock noticed a bloom of light purple on her right cheekbone through the gloom, her shopping was scattered on the ground around them, bags ripped and useless.

“Well, I think Martha has finished chatting now, and I think we’ll be taking her home, so I think you should fuck off now mate”.

With each emphasis John jabbed a finger into the man’s chest shoving him further away from the frightened woman each time. Sherlock was tense and poised. He recognised the type and sincerely hoped that John hadn’t misjudged the situation. Stammering, blushing John had disappeared. Sherlock wondered what other hidden depths there were to John Watson.

Martha’s wide eyes looked pleadingly at Sherlock, flickering between him and the retreating figure of rat-man. She was trying to tell Sherlock something without alerting the other man. Sherlock lunged as he saw a small calloused hand slide surreptitiously into the pocket of his jacket,

“John!” Sherlock barrelled past John and threw himself at the man, shoulder first, knocking him to the ground. They both landed hard, winded, and a flash of silver skittered across the alley between John’s legs.

“You fucking little cunt, you don’t know who the hell you are messing with here”.

The man was on his feet and backing away, not so confident now with two against one and his weapon lost in the darkness. John made to run after him, but Martha cried out

“Oh, leave it, just leave it boys, it’s not worth it, I won’t have you hurting yourselves, please!”

“Who the hell was he?”, asked John, “Are you okay, did he hurt you?”

“ He knows my Frank, my husband. He was just trying to throw his weight around, you know how men are. It’s all ego and bravado, grandstanding if you will”.

She was trying to sound calm and offhand, but Sherlock could see her body trembling. He bent down and began gathering groceries into his arms.

“Where do you live, it can’t be far if you were on foot, let us see you home safely”.

John stooped to help him. There were a couple of packets and some milk that had burst and were beyond saving, but between the two of them they gathered the remaining shopping and turned to face Martha.

“We’d better dispose of this somewhere too”, she was holding a three inch serrated blade with a wooden handle tentatively between her thumb and forefinger.

“Over there”, Sherlock nodded towards a restaurant skip behind them. It would be emptied regularly, no-one should accidently find it before then.

She inched open the lid and dropped the blade inside, out of sight. “I really am okay boys”, she said as they all walked companionably down the main street.

“I’m so sorry to spoil your evening, look you must come in for a cup of tea and warm up a bit before you go home”, she smiled, kindly.

“Here we are”, she said, moments later, slowing to a halt in front of a large black door with an old-fashioned brass knocker. It was a large three storey town house, probably sub-divided into flats, thought Sherlock. There was a small sandwich shop / café next door, a red canopy fluttered lightly in the breeze. The number on the door was 221B.

“Where are we exactly?” John whispered to Sherlock. His breath tickled the downy hairs behind Sherlock’s ears.

“Baker Street” said Sherlock, “Nice location, expensive, her husband must be very well connected”.

Sherlock’s mind was racing, names and faces running through his head. There had been something horribly familiar about the man in the alley.

Martha opened the door and they all piled into a generous hallway, and headed towards a door set back and to the right, 221A. They passed a narrow staircase that led up to the first floor.

“Oh no-one lives upstairs dear”, she said, following Sherlock’s eyes. “This flat is more than big enough for Frank and I. I’m not sure I would feel comfortable with someone living up there anyway, what with Frank being out most of the time. We don’t need the extra rent anyway, so it’s all fine really”.

She opened her door and bustled into the kitchen. Sherlock and John followed, depositing shopping on the kitchen worktop.

“Sit down dears, I’ll just pop the kettle on”. She opened a cupboard and began taking out cups and saucers.

“Martha, your face, here, let see to that first”. John pulled out a kitchen chair and gently pressed her down into it. Sherlock noted the small cut in the centre of the bruise on her cheekbone. John was right, it should be cleaned at least.

“Oh, no-one calls me Martha really”, she beamed, “everyone calls me Mrs Hudson”.

Mrs Hudson, Frank, husband, Frank Hudson…. Sherlock made the connection, the pieces of the puzzle connecting. “Mrs Hudson? Does your husband work at the Kitty Club?”

“What’s that?” John laughed.

“It’s a strip club John, Soho, the dodgy end”.

“How do you know about that place? Have you been in or something? John asked , smirking.

“Hardly”, Sherlock scoffed, “not really my area”. They smiled at each other.

“I remember walking past it one time though” (off my fucking face on cocaine)

“Exotic dancing” Mrs Hudson interjected.

“Pardon?” said Sherlock.

“Exotic dancing” she repeated, “stripping sounds so seedy”.

“So, the Kitty Club…….”

“Yes” she continued, “we own it, Frank and I. Well, I’m more of a silent partner, so you would say”. She looked thoughtful. “But It’s doing ever so well. We bought this place outright, mortgage-free, that’s why we don’t need tenants, strictly speaking”.

Sherlock pictured the Kitty Club, run down, peeling paint, the epitome of seedy. Wherever Frank Hudson made his money, the Kitty Club was not the primary source. He wondered if Mrs Hudson knew this. He saw the steel behind those kind eyes. Of course she does, he decided. This house will be in her name, he thought, sole ownership. A get-out plan. Sherlock decided he liked Mrs Hudson very much indeed.

“Where is your first aid kit” said John, glancing around the kitchen.

“In the bathroom dear, cupboard under the sink”.

John nodded and left the room. Mrs Hudson smiled fondly at Sherlock across the kitchen table. “So, have you two been together long? She asked softly.

“Er no, not exactly”

“Oh well, that doesn’t matter. You are obviously made for each other. The way he looks at you dear” she sighed wistfully, “like he’s won the lottery or something”. She smiled and patted the back of his hand.

“But if he knew what I was really like……” Sherlock began

“Oh now! Don’t do that to yourself dear. You have a wonderful heart, it shines out of you. I can see it plain as day! And if anyone can’t see that, then they don’t deserve you” she nodded, firmly. “He see’s it” she added. “Can’t you tell?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure he could tell. He may have had lots of sex, but he had never stayed around long enough to get to know any of them. It was too much work, emotionally, and he couldn’t bear the thought of all the tedious conversations, feigning interest in their boring lives. No-one had seemed worth the effort. Until now….. Sherlock had no idea what was different about John Watson. On the surface he was an ordinary blond-haired, blue-eyed teenage boy. Smaller than average height, (pleasingly muscular, larger than average dick) obviously moderately intelligent, but endearingly insecure and naïve. But what Sherlock did know was that he wanted to take this boy apart, explore every inch of skin, know every beat of his heart, taste every pulse point, drive him to the very edges of insanity and hold him there. In short, Sherlock wanted to utterly, utterly ruin John Watson.

He was mildly disgusted with himself.

His cock throbbed inside his jeans.

John emerged from the bathroom carrying a small green plastic box, looking slightly guilty. Sherlock, frowned. Had he heard his conversation with Mrs Hudson? Unlikely. What else could it be? He noted a small thin 4 inch bulge in the front pocket of John’s jeans and felt a spark of realisation.(Oh dear me John Watson, I have underestimated you, haven’t I? Maybe not so innocent after all).

John busied himself cleaning the cut and applying antiseptic ointment, then checking over the rest of Mrs Hudson’s face, head and arms for further signs of injury. Medicine, thought Sherlock with a start. I never did ask what he would be studying. First year Medicine, definitely intelligent then, ambitious too, unafraid of hard work. Finally satisfied that Mrs Hudson was physically fine, John sat down in the chair next to Sherlock.

“Didn’t you say something about tea and biscuits Mrs Hudson” he said.

An hour later they were saying their goodbyes (And not before time, thought Sherlock) Although he had to admit that Mrs Hudson was good company, easy to talk to, and she had led a fascinating life which she delighted in relating to them in lurid detail at times. Sherlock had been rather uncomfortable for the last thirty minutes or so. Sitting in such close proximity to John Watson, but not being able to touch him had tested the limits of his endurance. He knew that John had been in a similar state. He had kept stealing nervous glances at Sherlock from the corner of his eye and his right leg had been bouncing up and down impatiently. Sherlock had tried an experimental touch along John’s inner thigh while he pretended to stoop down and scratch his ankle. John had started choking, loudly , on his custard cream biscuit and had taken a desperate swig of lukewarm tea.

“Sorry, a crumb just went down the wrong way”, he squeaked out.

Sherlock snickered into the back of his hand

. Mrs Hudson made them promise to come back and see her soon and John laughed at the appalled look on his face when she enveloped him in a warm embrace and kissed him on the cheek. She pressed a £20 note into his hand as they stepped out onto the pavement.

“Take a taxi boys, if you need to be somewhere in a hurry that is”, she winked at Sherlock as she closed the door.

It was surprisingly easy to get a taxi even at this late hour. Sherlock simply stuck out his arm, and a black cab magically pulled up at the kerb. They spent the ten minute taxi ride sitting as close to each other as possible without arousing suspicion. John was chewing on his bottom lip, staring out of the opposite window, passing lights playing across his face, the colour of his eyes flickering light, dark, light, dark. Sherlock thought he might explode with lust. They almost stumbled over each other in their haste to exit the taxi. Sherlock hadn’t even had to ask, John had automatically given the address of the halls of residence to the taxi driver, and here they were.

This was about to get very interesting.

Sherlock couldn’t wait a second longer, his patience worn thin, and he caught John around the waist and pulled him round into a bruising kiss. John responded immediately tangling his tongue with Sherlock’s own, mouths moving perfectly against each other. Sherlock slid his hands slowly down John’s hips and around to his gorgeous firm arse, squeezing the taught muscle, and pulling John flush against his body. John fisted a handful of curls at the back of his head and stole a hand under his t-shirt, rubbing rhythmic circles on his abdomen, his skin erupted in goosebumps and he moaned desperately into John’s mouth.

“Fucking hell, we need to slow down or I’m going to rip your clothes off right here on the doorstep”, he gasped as they reluctantly broke the kiss.

John nuzzled into the crook of his neck

. “That thing you wanted me to do earlier….” John began nervously.

“Mm? Remind me again” breathed Sherlock.

“You know….er……something……to you?

“Tell me John” Sherlock used his lowest sultriest voice, “Tell me what I asked you to do……tell me what you want to do to me”

“….fuck…you…” John huffed out in a barely audible whisper.

“Say it again John, I want to hear you”.

“Fuck you, I want to fuck you. Christ Sherlock, I really, really do”.

That was enough. John fumbled with his key card and opened the outside door, and they ran, hearts pounding with adrenaline up three flights of stairs, too impatient to even wait for the lift. It was 3.30am and the corridors were deserted, but music and laughter still sounded from behind some of the closed doors. Sherlock was glad that a little extra noise was likely to go unnoticed as he fully intended to make John Watson scream. John swiped his key card again at the door to flat 371, and made straight for room A, one of four other identical rooms, which shared a communal kitchen and living room. The door sounded too loud as it clicked shut and they stood panting as their eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. A weak orange light filtered through the curtains. Sherlock made the first move, pushing John’s jacket back off his shoulders and down his arms.

“Off, I want these off now, I want to see all of you”.

With the jacket successfully removed, he began enthusiastically divesting John of the rest of his clothes until John was standing in only a pair of fitted grey boxer shorts, different to the ones he had worn to the gig. Sherlock was aware of his own soiled underwear. John followed suit, pulling Sherlock’s hoodie and t-shirt off in quick succession and yanking at the tight denim on his legs as Sherlock toed off his Converse.

They stood face to face drinking in the sight of their near naked bodies, both thrumming with arousal. Sherlock looked John steadily in the eye, grasped the waistband of his own pants and slowly pushed them down and off, cock springing free. John let out a strangled gasp, his adam’s apple bobbing nervously. Sherlock took pity and closed the gap. He stroked a hand gently down the side of John’s face.

“Its okay, I’m here, you’ll be fine, I’ll make this good for you I promise” he whispered.

John nodded mutely, his breath hitching as Sherlock slowly eased his boxers over his cock, down and off. His erection lay almost flush against his abdomen, dusky and engorged, a smear of shiny fluid already evident on his stomach. Sherlock’s mouth watered.

He pushed him back slowly in the direction of the narrow bed and when John’s knees connected with the edge, he sagged back weakly onto the mattress. Sherlock climbed onto the bed after him, adjusting their positions until they were lying face to face. He pressed his lips against John’s and slowly the tension began to leave the other boy. He relaxed into Sherlock’s touch, their hands exploring naked skin as the kiss became more heated. He kissed along John’s jaw to his ear and licked down to his collarbone, suckling and nipping at the expanse of creamy skin, down to a small pink nipple, biting gently at the erect nub of flesh. John groaned and arched his back. Sherlock pushed his right leg in between John’s thighs and they both gasped as their erections pressed together, hot and insistent. Sherlock had never wanted anyone so badly in his life.

“ I need you John, will you do this for me?”

His voice was husky with unfamiliar emotion.

“God yes, anything Sherlock, whatever you want, I’m ready, just tell me what to do”

“Do you have condoms? Lube?” Sherlock whispered

. “Er yes,yes I have condoms…I wasn’t sure if we would need them” John stammered.

The number twenty seven flashed through Sherlock’s mind.

“Yes I think we should, definitely, and anyway John Watson, I know what you stole from Mrs Hudson’s bathroom you filthy boy”.

John shrugged and laughed. Sherlock relaxed. This was going to be fine, he was sure of it. He leaned over the side of the bed and fished John’s jeans up from the floor. A quick rummage in the front pocket revealed a small tube of lubricant, safety seal still intact, slightly warm from being in such close contact with John’s body heat.

“I must admit I am slightly relieved that this is unopened but also a bit disturbed that Mrs Hudson would have this at all”, they both laughed.

John reached into the bedside cabinet and pulled out a box of condoms, still wrapped in cellophane.

“Not getting much action these days John”, said Sherlock archly, “well that’s about to change”

“Here”, he tossed the tube of lubricant at John. “You’ll need to do this, I could do it myself, but it’s much more fun this way because I get to watch you”.

He clicked on the bedside lamp, filling the room with muted light. He parted his thighs and John shuffled down between them until he was lying on his stomach, face close to Sherlock’s straining erection. John ran his tongue up the length of the shaft and Sherlock hissed in surprise.

“Fucking hell John, a little warning maybe?” he said in a teasing tone.

John popped open the lube and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingertips. He tossed it onto the floor and turned back to Sherlock, running his left hand along Sherlock’s inner thigh, following the movement of his hand with a press of his lips. With his right hand he gently brushed is index finger against Sherlock’s puckered entrance, drawing slow circles clockwise as the muscle slowly relaxed. Sherlock pushed down impatiently, desperate for more sensation, and John gasped as his finger slid inside Sherlock’s body.

“Is this okay? Did I hurt you?” he asked worriedly.

“Fuck no” Sherlock growled as John pumped his finger slowly in and out, making him dizzy with want.

“Another, I need more” he gasped, and John complied. Sherlock canted his hips, slowly fucking himself on John’s fingers.

“Probe my prostate Dr Watson”

John added a third finger, and Sherlock’s hissed with the stretch, and then John crooked his fingers forward, and Sherlock’s vision went momentarily white. He arched his back.

“Fuck John, that feels amazing, suck my balls while you’re down there”

John snorted. “You are such a dirty fucking bastard Sherlock Holmes, do you know that?”

“Says the man with his fingers up my arsehole”, said Sherlock drily.

“Enough with the anal probe, stick your cock in me now John Watson!”

Sherlock wiggled his arse suggestively.

“Oh god, I’m going to die aren’t I?” John groaned.

“As long as you make me come first, priorities John, remember?”

“Really”, he added, “this feels incredible.”

“Here” he tossed John a small foil packet. “Get suited up, you’re going into battle”.

He pulled lazily at his erection, coaxing it back to full hardness as he watched John open the packet and roll the condom down his length. (Shit, there was a distinct possibility that this might actually hurt a bit. John was quite big. Sherlock bit his lip in anticipation.

John spread more lube over his sheathed erection, and stroked his cock two, three times as Sherlock licked his lips and watched on propped elbows.

“Are you staying like this, on your back?” John asked

“Yes, I thought it would be more familiar, you can plow me into the mattress like a girl”.

John looked stricken for a second.

“Oh, fucking hell John, you are a complete virgin aren’t you?”

“Um, yeah, I am…..sorry”.

“What the fuck are you apologising for? I think it’s fucking fantastic, the best gift anyone could ever give me. I don’t deserve this John” (oh god, he really, really didn’t).

“I want to though” John gasped, “I want to so much. I need to kiss you Sherlock”.

John bent forward and snogged Sherlock breathless. Desire raged through his body again. John was like a glorious addiction, and Sherlock was greedy for more.

“Now John please, I need you now” (he remembered his earlier fantasy, begging John to fuck him, desperate for release – the reality was even better he realised). Sherlock sucked in a breath as John held the base of his cock steady and lined it up with his prepared entrance, his thighs quivering with a mixture of arousal and fear. He pressed forward slowly, breaching the first tight ring of muscle with a gasp. He froze and stared at Sherlock with wide eyes.

“Oh fucking shit Christ Sherlock, I can’t…..I’m stuck, I can’t fucking move”

“Relax, of course you can, look at me John, look at me” Sherlock arched his back and moaned. “This is so good John, look. I love it John, move with me”

It felt so fucking fantastic, the delicious sting as his hole stretched wide around John’s cock gave way to an aching throb of pleasure. John panted above him, sweat beading his forehead as he fought to process the new sensations. Sherlock knew what he must be feeling. Impossible tight heat and a feeling that if you moved an inch you were sure to explode. But only the head was in and Sherlock needed more. He brought his legs up and curled them tightly around John’s back, crossing them at the ankles. He felt the quiver of tension in his thighs as he lifted his arse slightly from the bed and pressed firmly down into the small of John’s back.

John jerked forward with a strangled “Ummph”.

OhgodOhgodOhgod! John was sheathed fully in Sherlock’s arse now and it felt marvellous! Sherlock was stretched so wide, so full, John’s larger than average cock was perfection. He decided it was time to push things further.

“Move John, I need you to move” his hips bucked underneath John, meeting his shallow thrusts. The angle changed slightly and Sherlock cried out in surprise, John was hitting his prostate every other thrust and Sherlock was flying, swept away on wave after wave of sensation. His reached between their bodies for his neglected cock, pumping counter to each thrust. John hips stuttered to halt.

“Sherlock, I’m not going to last much longer, I’m nearly there” he panted raggedly.

It was time to up the stakes.

“Changes places with me” he urged.

John looked terrified.

“I’m not going to fuck your arse, just let me on top, he explained”

John pulled out, a little too quickly and Sherlock hissed. He waited as John shuffled up the bed, his head resting on the pillows, then he straddled John’s hips before grasping his cock and lining it up with his entrance. He sank down until he was sitting on John’s lap. Slowly at first and then with greater urgency he began to rock his hips, finding a rhythm, up and down, up and down. John gasped and moaned beneath him, head thrown back as Sherlock fucked himself on John’s cock, riding him faster and faster, John’s fingers gripping his hips. Sherlock hoped there would be bruises.

His abdomen clenched as the familiar tension began to build, and he hadn’t even touched his cock yet. It bobbed obscenely in front of him, flushed and dark.

“Sherlock…..I’m going to come”, John groaned desperately.

Sherlock was struck with a sudden moment of inspiration. He dragged John’s hands away from his hips and shoved pushed them up above his head, gripping him by his wrists with one hand and fisting his cock with the other. John gave a strangled cry and Sherlock could feel him then, pulsing inside him. It wasn’t quite a scream but it was enough to push Sherlock over the edge too. He came, and hot ribbons of semen painted John’s abdomen and chest. He collapsed forward panting, smearing the sticky mess between them. A small splash of fluid glistened on John’s collarbone. Sherlock considered it for a second and then bent his head to lap at it with his tongue. John moaned and wriggled beneath him. Sherlock was still gripping John’s wrists, he let go and John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s back in soothing stripes.

“So good” John murmured. “So fucking good”

Sherlock reached between his legs and held John’s softening prick still as he gently pulled away. He eased the full condom off and tied it in a knot before depositing it on the floor beside the bed. He would have to remember to dispose of it in the morning. Finally he sank back onto the bed beside John.

“Here”, he reached down the side of the bed and grabbed a discarded t-shirt, using it to wipe the sticky mess from John’s chest, then his own, before kissing him softly, a slow brush of lips and tongues.

“I could fucking murder a cigarette right now” he sighed, pulling away. John curled towards him, draping an arm over his stomach and hooking a leg over his thighs. He looked utterly shagged-out, eyes hooded and sleepy, kiss-bruised lips and skin that smelled of sex. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

“John, that was so fucking spectacular, I think I may need to ravish your body on a regular basis” he smiled.

“In that case you are definitely going to kill me then” said John. “You are bloody insatiable Sherlock Holmes”

“Oh I’m sure you can keep up, there are so many things I still want to do to you. I have a list”

“Should I be worried?” John quirked an eyebrow

“Oh, without a doubt, John Watson”

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?"

They were both drifting into sleep, the dawn light already seeping through the curtains.

“Thanks for tonight…..it was….the…best…”

Sherlock awoke to the sound of his mobile phone alarm. 7.30am. It was a Tuesday morning, he should be in school in an hour. He switched the phone back on properly and it buzzed into life in his hand. Twenty-one missed calls, fifteen text messages, every single one from Mycroft. John stirred in the bed next to him. He had pillow creases on his cheeks and his hair was sticking up wildly at one side. Sherlock thought he was the most perfect human being he had ever seen.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you”,

He stroked his thumb over John’s chin, hoping that this was still alright, that in the daylight he was still allowed to do this. It was well past the time when Sherlock usually grabbed his clothes and bolted. Now he wanted nothing more than to lie in bed all day with John.

“It’s okay, I’m thirsty anyway, and I need a piss, do you want breakfast, I think I have juice?”

“Juice would be nice, thanks”, he hoped it would take away the taste of morning breath.

John scooted over him and pulled on his boxers, before padding along the corridor to the kitchen. Sherlock looked at his phone. He opened the last text message.

I know exactly where you are. Be careful not to break your toys Sherlock- MH

 His thumbs jabbed angrily at the keys:

John is not a toy and I won’t break him – SH

Can you be sure about that? – MH

Fuck off Mycroft – SH

Your eloquence astounds me brother mine –MH

Go screw yourself – SH

He switched off the phone and waited for John to return.

 

 

John yawned widely and pushed open the door to the kitchen. It was still early and all his other flatmates were still in bed. He barely glanced at a figure curled up on the living room sofa, covered in an old fleece blanket. He felt amazing, alive , like he hadn’t done in ages, and he knew the reason was currently lounging in his bed looking too fucking gorgeous to be true. Sherlock was wild and dangerous and completely fucking bonkers bat-shit crazy and John wanted him badly, whatever that involved.

He took two glasses down from the shelf, opened the fridge to grab the juice and began to pour. The second glass was half full when he heard a flurry of movement behind him.

“Who the fuck is she John? You didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face you prick”

The glass overflowed and sticky orange liquid splashed onto his bare feet.

“You fucked another girl last night didn’t you? And don’t lie, I see she left her mark” she pointed accusingly at his neck.

“Oh shit Sara, please, let me explain”

The kitchen door swung open, Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway in all his naked glory

“Problem?” he said.

 


End file.
